Celebrity in Death (In Death #34)(70)

She wasn’t entirely sure she could pull that threat off, but it sounded ominous. Roundtree went the color of overcooked beets.

“Preston! Get legal on the line, that ass**le Farnsworth the studio stuck us with. I’ve had enough of this shit. Enough.”

“Mason!” Before Eve could respond, Connie rushed onto the set. “What’s going on here? You take a breath.” She pointed a finger at him. “I mean it. You take a breath.”

He looked as though he might explode first, but he took the breath, then another when Connie wagged that extended finger at him. His color cooled a few degrees.

“She wants to shut us down because some private dick got killed. I’m not taking any more of this harassment.”

“A private investigator? Murdered?” Something in Connie’s tone had Eve focused on her.

“A. A. Asner. I don’t think that name’s unfamiliar to you. I’m not looking to shut anything down, if I get reasonable cooperation. I’ve got a job to do,” she said to Roundtree who’d gone back to tugging on his red goatee. “We can both do our jobs, but mine comes first. That’s not negotiable.”

“An hour,” he told her.

“We’ll start with that. I need to speak, individually, to everyone who attended the dinner party.”

“Steinburger and Valerie aren’t here. They’re off dealing with this f**king mess. Nadine’s probably off somewhere writing another book about this f**king mess. Matthew’s not on the call list today.”

“Let’s get them here. The sooner we can get this done, the sooner we can get out of your ass.”

His lips twitched in what might have been a reluctant smile quickly controlled. “Preston.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Take an hour!” Roundtree boomed it out. “I want everybody back here and ready to work in one hour.”

“Nobody leaves the premises,” Eve added. “We’ll speak to the cast members in their respective trailers. Go there,” she ordered. “Wait. I need a place to talk to non–cast members,” she told Roundtree.

“I’ve got an office here. You can use it.”

“That’ll work. I’ll take you first.” She turned to Connie.

“All right. I’ll take you to the office.”

“I’ll follow up with you,” she said to Roundtree. “Then Preston. I want to know when the others arrive on the premises.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Preston said again, then scurried off.

“Peabody, why don’t you go after Preston, make sure everybody goes where they’re supposed to go. And to save some time, contact Nadine yourself. Get her whereabouts and so on.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This way.” Connie, in sensible flats and casual trousers, led the way.

“Why are you here today?” Eve asked her as they exited the soundstage.

“Everyone’s on edge, upset, as is to be expected. I’m useful. The cast and crew can talk to me. I make a good wailing wall.”

“And you can keep your husband from imploding.”

Connie sighed, negotiated a turn. “Yesterday was grueling. In our business we’re used to the microscope of the media. But yesterday, even with buffers in place, was grueling. I don’t know how many contacts I fielded, or avoided, or passed on to Valerie. Not just reporters, bloggers, entertainment site hosts, but from vid people—actors, directors, producers, crew—who either knew K.T. or just wanted to know what was going on.”

She unlocked a door, stepped into a roomy office with a huge, deep sofa, a trio of generous club chairs, a shiny galley kitchen, a private bath.

“I want coffee. Would you like coffee? I’ve had too much already, but, well, it’s too early to start drinking, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t mind coffee. Black.”

“Mason feels responsible,” Connie began as she programmed coffee. “He won’t admit it, but I know him. We hosted the party, she died there. We’ve been annoyed and impatient with her, and he regretted casting her in this project. We both knew she was difficult, but she handled herself so well initially.”

Connie shook her head, passed a hand over the hair she’d pulled back in a casual tail. “She was so enthusiastic, so cooperative—at first. But in the last two or three months, it’s been a series of arguments, demands, frustrations, delays.”

“Makes it tough to work. Tough for Roundtree to keep it all going.”

“It does—did. He’s not one to suppress his feelings or thoughts—as I’m sure you’ve observed. So he made it very clear how he viewed her behavior. He swore he’d never work with her again. And now, of course, he won’t. And he feels responsible.”

“He’s not, unless he’s the one who drowned her.”

“He couldn’t.” Graceful, contained, Connie moved to the sofa, set both cups on the table that fronted it. She sat, folded her hands. “I want you to listen to me. He rants, yells, stomps, and snarls. He’d have blackballed her if he could—and that’s not out of the realm of possibility. But he’d never do physical harm.”

Eve took a seat. “How about you?”

“Yes, I’m capable. I’ve thought about this. I think most of us are capable of killing under the right—or wrong—circumstances. I would be. I think I would be. I know I could happily have slugged her, then done a victory dance. I was that angry with her on the night of the party. I can only tell you I didn’t. I want you to find out who did, but I don’t want it to be anyone I care about. It’s hard to reconcile that.”